Geekerella: A Fangirl Fairy Tale

Carmindor.

THE CROWD IS FULL OF MONSTERS.

Okay, not actual monsters. But you try flying to New York City on a red-eye, subsisting on nothing but burnt coffee and half a grapefruit, sitting for thirty minutes in a makeup chair just so your stylist can get your curly hair just right (for God’s sake, man, it’s hair), in designer jeans that are pinching you in places that aren’t even awake this early while you’re trying to remember the answers to all the questions the cohosts are going to ask you—all on three hours of sleep, three—and then being excited to see a crowd of fans.

Breathe, I tell myself. It’s fine.

I pace back and forth behind the outside stage. No one has spotted me yet, but my skin’s crawling as if I’m being watched. It comes with the territory.

Now I know why Gail, my handler, told me to pop two Advil before the show. I’ve been to rock concerts (and, back in the day, convention panels), but this audience is ridiculous. Gail said they’ve been standing out here since four this morning. What person in their right mind would stand in line that early for me?

Beside me, Gail bounces on her well-worn sneakers. I don’t think she’s had the chance to unlace them since the second episode of Seaside Cove. She’s scrolling through her emails, nodding. Everything’s set. We’ve got your flight booked for tonight, your ride to and from the airport, two assistants running interference for paparazzi… Then she looks up at me and smiles. We’re golden.

She hands me a water bottle, and I put it against my neck. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back into a too-tight frizzy bun, a sure sign she’s just as stressed as I am. Just breathe. You’ll be fine. This is just the starter course for the media blitz. You can do it.

"You could say I’m leveling up," I joke.

She gives me a blank look.

Like in video games? When you get enough experience points you—shutting up now. I unscrew the bottle and take a swig. Through the gap in the backstage curtains, I watch my fans shift impatiently. I squint. Is that girl wearing my face on her shirt?

Don’t pay too much attention, she replies. Her phone beeps and she pulls it out again. She frowns.

I give her a side-eye. Everything all right?

She scrolls through her email.

Earth to Gail?

Nothing.

"Gail Morgan O’Sullivan."

What? Oh! She shoves her phone into her back pocket. Sorry, sorry. Do you ever feel like you’re forgetting something?

My underwear. All the time, I say with dead seriousness. Sometimes I give myself a wedgie just to make sure I have them on.

Her worry cracks open into a small smile. "You do not."

Gail is older—twenty-five or so—with a brushing of freckles on her cheeks that darken in the summer, and almost glow when she blushes. Aside from my signed copy of Batman: Year One, she’s the best friend I’ve got. When you’re me, real friends don’t come all that easy. Or at all. They used to, but I learned the hard way that things change. Especially when you’re famous.

A stagehand comes over to mic me. I thread it under my blazer and clip the receiver to the back of my jeans. Two minutes, he says, and rushes away.

"Oh-kay! Gail says. Remember to smile and just be the best you you can be." She looks me over with an eagle eye, putting a lock of hair back in place and straightening the blazer over my T-shirt. It’s the most expensive thing I own—the blazer, not the T-shirt—as per my agent’s request. He wants me to look approachably geeky but still Burberry-wearing Seaside Cove material. Which, as far as I’m concerned, are two streams that you shouldn’t ever cross.

Look to the stars. Aim. Ignite. Gail chants. She hugs me tightly. I’m so proud of you, Darien. Your dad is too.

Proud of the money, I mumble.

Her mouth twitches. I don’t think it’s just—

The audience’s shrill cheer cuts through her words. Just shrill, all-hell-loose screams. I’m pretty sure my costar Jessica Stone—sweet, popular, with an indie-film track record that’s way more impressive than my Seaside Cove stint—gets a crowd that’s a lot…calmer. Her dude followers don’t draw I HEART JESS on T-shirts, they just…well, never mind. I don’t really want to think about the creepy Google searches of Jess Stone fans. Our crowds are different, end of story. The Starfield director, Amon Wilkins, of giant robot movie fame, probably figured she would bring in the coveted awards attention and accolades. But I guess I’ll find out soon enough, since we start filming tomorrow.

As for me? I apparently bring an army of monsters to a beloved cult fandom. My fans call themselves SeaCos—or maybe it’s Darienites. And today? This is a publicity stunt. This is my manager and PR team at their finest.

Scotty can beam me up anytime now.

That’s the thing too. I know I’m not the first young guy to take over a character that people already love. I’m sure Chris Pine had people who didn’t like him because he was Kirk 2.0. But I’m different. I’m eighteen. He was twenty-something. He had time to refine his No Fraks Given. I still worry about matching my socks and making sure no one uncovers my Star Wars boxers. Plus, right now, my hands are clammy and I think I’m starting to sweat, and sweating during a televised interview is the worst possible thing you can do.

Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this, Darien.

The stagehand rounds back and corrals me up the steps to the stage. He starts counting down with his fingers.

Five…four…

I smooth my blazer. Swallow my anxiety.

And now let’s welcome our next guest to the stage, one of the cohosts says, quieting the crowd, "the young actor better known as the king of Seaside Cove"—Holy Ego-Crusher, Batman, that knocks off all my street-cred—"and now picking up the mantle as our favorite royal from the stars, Federation Prince Carmindor…Darien Freeman!"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Put on a smile.

Like a superhero donning a mask, I step out of me and into Darien Freeman, swallowed up by the ravaging screams of five hundred teenage girls.

THE BEAUTIFUL FACE—ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL, the kind you’ll remember because it’ll be plastered on every fragrance ad and billboard for the next ten years—of Darien Freeman stretches across the entirety of my stepmother’s 54-inch plasma TV, grinning in an easygoing sort of way. Brown skin, long eyelashes, curly hair. He might look the part, but his smile’s so bright it’s almost blinding. Not dour, brooding Federation Prince material. Not even cut from the same cloth.

Carmindor smiled only once in all fifty-four episodes. At Princess Amara in episode 53. The episode before—

No, no. No one thinks about that last episode, let alone talks about it. It never happened. I even blacklisted any mention of it from my blog.

Rockefeller Center is crowded with Starfield blue and silver. A gaggle of fangirls in the front row wave around STARCRUSH ME! and I WANT TO WABBA-WABBA WITH YOU signs like they’ve all watched the interstellar missions against the Nox firsthand. Which they haven’t.

Even I haven’t.

Dad, though…he was there from the beginning. The original fanboy. He even started a convention for it. ExcelsiCon. We went every year. I remember meeting the aging cast, getting my stargun signed. Hiding it in my book bag during school. Waking up every morning to Dad’s alarm clock playing the theme song. Eating Wabba-Wabba Flakes for breakfast (which were really Frosted Flakes, but six-year-old me didn’t know the difference). Stargazing in the summers and pretending to defeat the Nox in our backyard. Saving the galaxy from being sucked into the Black Nebula…

Living with Dad was like living in a universe where the Federation Prince Carmindor existed.

And then—in the blink of an eye—that universe vanished.

My finger hovers over the POWER button on the remote, but I can’t seem to look away. How will Seaside Cove fans clash with us Stargunners? It’s like seeing two souped-up racecars headed for a collision at full speed—I have to watch.

Leaning back in the comfy-looking chair, Darien Freeman waves—a little shy, a little taken aback—to his sea of fans as the cohosts welcome him to the show. I’m sure he thinks it’s cute.

It’s great to be here, Darien Freeman begins. His fans screech like ambulance sirens: I love you, Darien! and Marry me!

Ugh, gag me.

One of the cohosts, a guy with a massive chin, says, We’re so excited to have you! I remember—and this might date me—but I remember staying up late just to watch the show. It’s a classic! How do you feel stepping into a role as big as Carmindor?

The actor smiles. His teeth are too white, his lips too balanced—I bet he practices it in the mirror. It’s an honor, for sure, he says, even though he wouldn’t know a classic if it shot phaser cannons at him. And I’m looking forward to stepping into Carmindor. Big shoes to fill.

Big boots, you mean, I say to no one. David Singh was phenomenal. A barrier breaker in the days when almost no other sci-fi shows had a lead actor of color. An advocate for human rights, onscreen and off. A man who tell truly believed in the philosophy of Starfield.

"Well, unlike Rick here, I never watched Starfield, says the second cohost, a petite woman in a white pantsuit who probably doesn’t mean to look like a Stormtrooper but totally does. But it seems like everyone knows about it these days! That motto—how does it go?"

Look to the stars. Aim. Ignite, Darien says. "And I hope you become a fan. Starfield has a little something for everyone. It’s a story about the good ship Prospero and its crew as they fight to protect the galaxy and uphold the standards of peace and equality. Oh—he grins—and fight aliens."

That sounds downright terrifying! The cohost gasps. I roll my eyes. Fight aliens is not how I’d describe facing down the Nox King—technically the humans are the aliens in the series. But then again, I’m an actual Stargunner.

Now, don’t hate us for this, the cohost goes on, "but we like to play little games on our show, and since you seem to know so much about Starfield, I thought I could challenge you to Dunk Tank!"

The camera pans wide to a water-filled booth with a bull’s-eye on the side. The camera cuts back to Darien, looking—well, faking—a shocked expression. Oh man! Really?

Of course! Then the cohost reaches behind her chair and pulls out a water gun. "Let’s see how well you can school us in Starfield! Every time you get an answer wrong, I get to take a shot at you."

Oh, I think. This’ll be good. There’s no way he knows anything about the series beyond its name.

The crowd begins to chant in a loud, raucous voice. Dunk tank! Dunk tank! Dunk tank!

Darien throws his arms out to the crowd dramatically. Really? Really? You want to see me get dunked?

Dunk tank! Dunk tank! the crowd chants, and I have to agree.

What do you say, Darien? the woman host asks, grinning.

He sighs, hanging his head—acting all oh, fine, let’s get this over with. Then he slaps his hands on the side of the armchair and stands, shrugging out of his expensive-looking blazer. All right! You’re on.

Oh yeah? Let’s see what you’ll get wrong, Darien Freeman. I fold my arms and settle back in my chair. Onscreen, Darien climbs up onto the dunk tank, securing goggles around his eyes, and gives the thumbs-up.

The woman cocks her water gun and looks at a card in her hand. Question one! What is the name of the government that Carmindor is a part of?

Seriously? Too easy! Darien shouts back at her. The Federation!

A buzzer dings, signaling the right answer, and the audience boos, shouting to dunk him already. Something goes flying past Darien’s head—I think it’s underwear. He doesn’t look fazed in the least, grinning from ear to ear, swinging his feet underneath the plank he’s sitting on.

Fine, we’ll get a little tougher! the big-chin cohost shouts. He reads the next question. Who is Carmindor’s best friend?

Euci! A little harder than that! Darien eggs them on.

"How about what Euci does on the ship? Or in which episode does he betray Carmindor to the Nox to save his colony? Or which episode does that colony blow up anyway? I mutter. How about that question, pretty boy?"

The crowd chants louder. Dunk tank, dunk tank, dunk tank!

What’s the name of the ship?

"Prospero!"

What is the Federation salute called?

The promise-sworn!

The female cohost grins and whips out the final card, clearly about to go in for the kill. I edge to the front of my seat.

What does Carmindor call his love interest in the final episode of the series? she asks.

Darien hesitates on that one. He looks around, out at the crowd.

No cheating! the cohost cries. Are you stumped? Ten, nine…

Up on the plank, Darien chews on his cheek, rocking back and forth. I snort. Of course he doesn’t know this one. He’s never watched an episode of Starfield in his life.

Five! Four! Three! The crowd begins to count along. The cohost spreads her feet apart and aims with one hand—very dramatically, which is not at all a good way to aim a water gun—as Darien scrubs the back of his neck, looking puzzled.

Two…ONE! The crowd cheers.

The female cohost fires her shot and it hits the bull’s-eye directly. A siren wails and a flashing light spins above Darien Freeman’s perfectly groomed head, and the plank slips out from beneath him. He goes tumbling into the water, and the crowd goes wild. They’re loving it.

Strangely, though, I’m not.

"It’s ah’blena, I mutter, even though he’s underwater. Even though I’m seeing him through a TV. Even though he definitely can’t hear me and I’m just talking to a plasma flat screen. Still. If he’s going to be Carmindor, it’s something he should know. Dunk tank or no dunk tank. Ah’blena is what he calls her."

Onscreen, Darien emerges from the tank soaking wet and flips his wet hair out to the crowd, and they scream, reaching up their hands. He grins at them.

I scowl. At this point, the only way the movie can salvage itself is by announcing the perfect villain. Obviously, it should be the Nox King, because how cool would that be? The Nox are the natural enemies of the Federation, but unfortunately the early-’90s SFX in the original series didn’t do so hot with their giant ears. A reboot could make them look way better. Plus—let’s be honest—think of the slash fiction potential. I glance at my phone, just to check the time, but I’ve still got a good twenty minutes before I’m on Pumpkin duty.

Onscreen, Darien takes a towel handed to him by a PA and begins to dry off. But then someone yells at him to take his shirt off. He pauses, turning back to the crowd.

Really? he asks them.

They scream in reply.

The screams get louder as he reaches for the bottom of his soaked shirt. I can already see the definition of his chest through the fabric. Everyone can. I groan. Why can’t life have a fast-forward button?

Unlike the twins, I’m not a Darien Freeman fangirl. And I’m definitely not a fan of that teenage wet dream of a show Seaside Cove.

But then Darien Freeman peels off his shirt, and my mouth falls open. His abs and chest beam across Catherine’s plasma TV, piercing through my sleepy brain like a ray of hope in this godless universe.

He…he’s certainly buffed up for the Federation Prince, I mutter. I’ll give him that.

I stare longer than I want to. Longer that I’ll ever—ever—admit. Darien, clearly loving every minute, spreads his arms and then, after a moment, flourishes a bow toward the audience.

The woman cohost begins fanning herself with her water gun. "Well. That makes up for you losing! Can I touch them?"

Outside, a rumble rips through the air so loud that it quakes the pictures on the mantel and I jump. Crap. I’d know that sound anywhere.

The Magic Pumpkin is coming.

Quickly, I turn back to the TV, clasping the remote like a prayer. C’mon, just announce who the villain is! I beg. "Please let it be the Nox King! Please! Please!"

So, as the hero of the galactic Federation—big-chin guy gives his cohost a pitying little lady look as Darien pulls his T-shirt back on—you need a nemesis…

Think of the monologues! Think of the OT3s! I cry out to no one. "Just give me something, universe!"

Big Chin goes on as though I’m not making a very compelling case. "Now I hear the villain has been very hush-hush and there have been some…rumors…going around. About a certain…lady."

My mouth falls open wordlessly. If it’s a lady, it’s not the Nox King. But then it’ll have to be…

I lean in closer to hear over the rumble of the Pumpkin, holding the candle on the coffee table to keep it from rattling in its jar. Darien Freeman says something snarky, fiddles with his blazer cuffs, and wait for it…wait for it…

I squint to read his lips. They’re nice lips, at least. And I recognize the syllables that push around them. The way his mouth forms the villain’s name, the way his tongue curves around the sound.

The Pumpkin honks from the driveway, and next door, Franco begins yapping. The horn blares again, but Sage is going to have to wait—she’s way early, anyway. I just sit back, stunned. I can’t believe it. They picked the one villain—the one character—I never want to think about again. In the original Starfield, Prince Carmindor shouts her name to the skies with fist-shaking agony, in an image you may recognize from the internet meme Angry Shouting Soul-Crushing Angst.

Then again, she’s the only villain who makes sense for a movie reboot. The only one who could rip your weak human heart out of your chest and use your spine like floss against the teeth of agony and bitterness. Prince Carmindor’s one and only love interest.

Princess Amara.

Big Chin looks at the screen. "And if you want to be one of the lucky few to meet the Federation Prince himself, Midlight Entertainment is teaming up with ExcelsiCon this year to host a fan competition! Dress up as your favorite Starfield character and you could win once-in-a-life-time tickets to ExcelsiCon’s masquerade ball, where the winners will be treated to an exclusive meet-and-greet with our man Darien Freeman, plus tickets to the premiere of Starfield in L.A.!"

I shake my head. The only part of that prize I’d want are the tickets to L.A. And maybe the chance to tell Darien Freeman what I think of his stupid, vapid Carmindor to his stupid, vapid face.

Darien Freeman gives the host a weird look. I…what?

The host just stares at him, open mouthed. There’s an awkward pause. Then Darien Freeman looks at the TV again. At me. An emotion crosses his face I can’t quite recognize—something he’s trying to hide—and millions of Americans are watching.

You know, Darien. ExcelsiCon!

Darien nods distractedly. Right, right. Sorry. Of course.

The female cohost puts a hand on his knee. "Darien, it was so nice to have you on the show and we can’t wait for Starfield, coming to theaters next spring!"

Suddenly, there’s a noise off-camera. Shouting. Someone climbs onto the stage and takes a running start for the actor. A girl in a homemade I’LL SEA YOU AT THE COVE T-shirt and bikini bottoms.

Her mouth connects to his with such force that it sends them both tumbling over the sofa. Security swoops in. The camera cuts to a Huggies commercial.

I sink even deeper into Catherine’s squishy chair. This is Starfield now? All of these SeaCos and Darienites flocking to my Starfield? Where they treasure abs and golden sunsets more than lifelong promise-sworns and celebrating your own weirdness?

Fine. If the universe thinks they can dish it, then I can dish it right back. I shove myself to my feet and thunder up the stairs, hurtling into my room. I wrench open my laptop just as Sage lays on the Magic Pumpkin’s horn in my driveway.

I ignore it and pull up my blog. Honestly, Chloe and Cal weren’t wrong—when it comes to the internet, you do need to get your reaction up as soon as possible. And if I do anything in this life, it’s this: writing about the catastrophe that will become Starfield. Documenting it. After forty years this is how Hollywood repays us Stargunners? By giving us Darien Freeman?

FAN-TASTIC OR FAN-SERVICE? I bang out into the title field. Perfect.

My fingers shake as they fly across the keyboard. Words just pour out of me. I don’t know where they’re coming from. Maybe years of pent-up rage of not being appreciated. Of having to watch reruns on a secondhand TV for years just to see the HD face of some idiot heartthrob wreck my father’s favorite character.

My favorite character.

The horn blares again, and I know the neighbors are wondering what a food truck is doing in the driveway.

I’m coming! I shout. With a click, I post the article, sending it out into the netherverse.

Thirty seconds later, I’ve pulled my work shirt over my head, slung my satchel over my shoulder, and hopped in shotgun to the ostentatiously orange monstrosity that is my place of employment.

You’re late, she says in a voice that matches her chlorine-green hair. Dull. Pretty weird. Not interested in talking to me. It was probably once a deep green, because she’s the type of person who would dye her hair the color of her name—Sage. "I’ve been waiting here for ever."

Sorry, I say quickly. A creepy laughing pumpkin hangs from the rearview mirror that my coworker adjusts as she backs out. I had to…do something. In a million years, or a million universes, I would never admit to Sage that I’m a Stargunner. I’m sure she’d just laugh. Wait, isn’t the RiverDogs stadium the other way? I add as she turns down one of Charleston’s notorious one-way streets.

Change of plans.

I… My voice trails off as I glance at a passing street sign. "I think this is one way the other way."

Sage says nothing, just grips the wheel tighter, a grin curving her hot-pink lips. On her otherwise expressionless face, it looks…out of place. Like a stuffed animal in the middle of a blood puddle. Demonic almost.

Tally-ho! Sage shouts—so loud that I jump—and yanks around on the gearshift.

I scramble for my seatbelt. I have my license, but since her mom is the owner—and thus our boss—Sage is the one who gets the driver’s seat. The downside is that she’s also a lunatic behind the wheel. And everywhere else, too. Honestly, if I could work anywhere else, I would. But since the only thing on my resume is my ill-fated stint at the country club—which I am not going to return to, no matter what Catherine says—I’m probably lucky the Pumpkin even wanted me at all.

There are worse jobs, I guess. I could be getting attacked by fangirls like poor, pretty Darien Freeman.

I’M SO, SO, SO SORRY. Gail hands me an ice pack as soon as I make it to the green room.

What just happened? I take it and wince as I press the pack against the back of my neck.

Gail shakes her head. I thought security had her…

I mean, they did, I say. Right after she had me. On the floor. I thought I’d choke on her tongue. My damp hair—no longer perfectly curled—sticks to my neck like seaweed.

The fangirl had come at me so fast, I barely knew what—or who—hit me until I was already flipping over the rock-hard sofa and onto my already bad back. Which is ridiculous, I know: I’m eighteen, I shouldn’t have a bad back. But after two years of carrying my costar around on Seaside Cove—it was supposed to be romantic, the fans loved it—my chiropractor told me to lay off the stunts for a while. I’m pretty sure that includes random girls lip-locking me in the middle of Hello, America.

Gail rubs her hands together nervously. "I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. I’m sorry. Was my fault completely. I should’ve had more security. I should’ve said something."

Hey, I interrupt, gently touching her elbow. I’m sure it’s not your fault, you know that. We both knew these abs were killer.

She gives me a pained look, but smiles. Don’t make me laugh! I’m your handler; I should’ve handled this before they surprised you on live TV. Mark’s gonna shank me right up the middle this time.

I sink onto the green room couch. Mark. My manager, my number one cheerleader, my bailer-out-of-jail, and—somewhere far, far down that list in a galaxy far, far away—my father. Gail’s been on his bad side for quite a while now. To him, she’s a fumbling idiot and sometimes she does fray at the edges, but everyone does. And if he thinks she is a fumbling idiot, I don’t even want to know what he thinks of me.

Besides, Gail’s the only person left from B.S.C.—Before Seaside Cove. Everyone else, my assistants and their assistants and Gail’s assistants, have all gone through Mark’s wringer, but Gail stayed. She’s a monument to where I came from. A piece of history from a time when I never thought a fan would tackle me on the stage of Hello, America.

I also never thought I’d purposefully miss a Starfield question. I knew the answer too—it was so easy. But that was the script. I’d miss ah’blena, get dunked, and show my abs. All in a day’s work.

Gail motions to my neck. Hurt bad?

I can feel it, so I think that’s a good sign.

Nodding, she sits down beside me. Once security pried off the fan, the producers ushered me into my dressing room to get checked out and go over the legal jargon I signed